


A Story

by ActualWritesThings



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, How do clones remember themselves, Themselves, What gods are there for those who were made to be forgotten, only themselves, stories, what sort of stories are told by those who were made to die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 05:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14097909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualWritesThings/pseuds/ActualWritesThings
Summary: What sort of stories do the clones tell about themselves? Who gets to live on in legend?





	A Story

Kyr’s pressed against the wall in a dark corner of some small shitty bar, nursing a drink that could charitably be called beer. The bar’s crowded, full of vode laughing and hanging off each other, the familiar accents rising up into a comfortable sea of noise deep enough for Kyr to drown in or join in if he wanted.

He doesn’t though. Just stays pressed up in his corner, alone and watching the vode in the bar with him. His attention’s drawn to a trooper in the middle of the bar, the grin on his face easy and confident as he’s surrounded by others. Even from the corner Kyr can hear the laughter and the jokes.

“Hey Scuttlebutt, tell us a _story_!” Someone calls and the bar goes quiet. Well, quieter. What passes for quiet in a place like this. The clone in question grins wider, leaning back against the bar.

“Didja hear about the shiny-”

“The one who-”

“Ya want me to tell this story or not vod?” The first clone, Scuttlebutt it sounds like, says, but the grin on his face makes the words into a joke. “Alright so there’s this shiny and this kid’s not even off Kamino before he loses his first squad.”

“That’s shit luck,” Another trooper interrupts, even as the ones sitting next to him elbow him hard enough to make him spill his drink.

“Yeah it is. Now stop interrupting or that’s all the story you’re gettin’

“So anyways, this kid ends up in another squad, fits in well enough with them, stops being a complete shiny n’all that. Then him and his squad have a mission as goes _completely_ sideways. I’m talking beyond FUBAR and they should all be marchin’ on now.”

“Only they’re not?”

“No shit they’re not. If they were I wouldn’t be telling this story. Now _shuddup._

“Anyways. Our shiny’s gotten himself shot, slowin’ him down and he looks at ‘imself n’his squad and he makes a choice. He’ll stay behind, cover their asses so they can get the kriff out.”

“Jaro.”

“Not ‘jaro’ ‘cus it worked. The rest of his squad gets out, last they see of ‘im is him getting swarmed and then his lifesigns going black. So they figure that’s that, say his name every night, remember him n’all that.

“But it wasn’t the end of it. See, the kid survived. He survived, but he woke up in a Sep holding cell in onnuva their ‘experimental facilities.’” No words interrupt Scuttlebutt this time, just low noises of disbelief and commiseration.

Kyr can feel the blood drain from his face at this, as he realizes just who this ‘story’ is about. He’s shaking in his seat, trying to will himself to find the strength to stand up and walk out, not hear anymore of this. He can’t.

“Now I don’t need to tell ya what sort of shit goes on in those hells. The kid found out first hand though, poor verd’ika. The ‘people’ running that hell were real demagolkaiise. Cut the kid up for _fun._ ”

Someone in the now silent crowd shudders and Kyr grips the glass of his drink so hard he’s afraid he might shatter it. He’s shaking harder now, forcing himself not to gulp down air like he wants to. He can keep quiet. He can keep them from noticing him.

“So the kid spends _six months_ in that hell. No one’s lookin’ for him on account of everyone thinking he’s dead. But command eventually gets word of some Sep research facility ‘n figure that they probably shouldn’t have onnuva those. So they send a bunch of commandos to go scout it out.”

“Isn’t that ARC shit, scouting?” A voice asks.

“Fuck vod I have no idea. All I know is I don’t want to fight either,” Scuttlebutt replies, and a wave of subdued laughter washes through the crowd. “So the commandos find the kid, drag him out of hell and back to the land of the living.

“Least, that’s what I was told,” Scuttlebutt shrugs, “but that kid made it through hell ‘n back and still’s here. Makes ya wonder what the longnecks put in our genes huh?” He takes a long drink of the beer that materialized next to him, and just like that, the spell’s broken. The story’s over and conversations once more spring up everywhere in the bar. Most of the ones Kyr can hear involve the fucking ‘story’ and how amazing it is that a _shiny_ can make it through that.

Kyr wants to scream or fall to his knees and empty his stomach of the beer he just drank or _something._ It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all. Part of him wants to go up to Scuttlebutt, grab him and tell him what it was like. Tell him that he was _vivisected_ without anaesthetic. That they ripped his eye out for trying to fight back. That he wakes screaming every single night thinking he’s back there.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. Just leaves a couple cred chits where he was sitting and walks out of the bar into the Coruscant night. He makes it a few streets down before his legs give out under him and leave him crumpled on the street with tears streaming down his face.

He stays like that for a moment. Two. Long enough for him to force himself back under control, force away the tears and make himself stand. He staggers back to his bunk and collapses in it. He’s a godsdamned legend and the bitter humor in it is enough to make him bare his teeth in something that’s close to a smile as he drifts off to fitful dreams. He’s going to be remembered after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Mando  
>  _vod(e)_ : brother(s), sibling(s), friend(s)  
>  _Jaro_ : death wish, recklessly stupid  
>  _verd'ika_ : little soldier, private  
>  _demagolkaiise_ : dismissive/derogatory plural of _demagolka_ : absolute monster _(lit. flesh carver)_
> 
> * * *
> 
> This is an attempt of exploring the personal headcanon I have that clone troopers tell stories that are almost religious in nature of vode that managed to survive things beyond imagining. A sort of way to ensure that at least some of them are remembered.


End file.
